Motherhood, 1951
Dear Saint Patrick, this is Peggy,
Or maybe it's Pegeen to you,
Well, I'm really Stella Mae.
Peggy's my nickname,
But anyway, will you please tell me
What to do about the rattlesnake
That's in my room?
I know it's there,
But I can't find it anywhere I search.
I've ransacked the closet more than once,
Because that's where we found the skin it shed.
I even put the cat in there and shut the door,
But he only went to sleep on my new dress
Which he had clawed from a hanger.
My grandma, Maggie, says you drove the snakes from Ireland
And they came here to Arizona.
She's right, you know
For didn't a rattler kill our cat, Blackie?
There he was beside the porch, stiff as a board
And baby Florence saw it.
She's only three and doesn't need to see death like that, not yet.
If you can, let her believe for now
That we will live forever.
Anyhow, I'm pregnant again.
I know I've sinned
But I am paying for it.
Don't make my girl suffer
Because her mother used poor judgment
And got herself in trouble out of wedlock.
My mother's disappointed in me.
My father doesn't care
And says I don't have to marry
Just to have a name for this one in the oven.
Father says there's nothing wrong with our name
And will serve the babe as well as any other,
But mother is determined to give this one a legal father
Like Baby Florence has, but only on paper.
She doesn't have a father either,
But she's got her granddad, he says
And goes to work. He is a barber.
Mother is a cook and she works longer hours,
So I'm here with Baby Florence
And that infernal snake all day.
Outside, the new cat, dogs, chickens and hogs
Roam about the yard,
But they can't help me, can they?
I keep praying, but you don't answer.
I guess you've got no time for me,
So armed with a shovel,
I go in the closet once again
And succeed in smashing a wall.
Bits of plaster fall on my head,
But I don't mind.
I'd rather be dead than never find the thing
That crawls about the room
Without fear of discovery.
This morning, I woke up to find a coiled imprint
At the foot of my bed.
They say I am protected from harm
Because the Virgin Mary put her heel
Upon a snake's head and crushed it
For the sake of all pregnant women.
I am safe, I say to myself and pray for mercy
And recall the dead baby diamondback we found last fall.
It glittered like a tiny jeweled bracelet
And I almost picked it up,
Before I remembered my own warning to my daughter
To never, ever pick up anything suspicious.
I wish I'd done that with the man partly responsible
For the mess I've made.
The diamondback was like the lust I felt for him.
It glittered so beautifully
I had to pick it up and wear it for awhile,
Then like some Lazarus, it came to life,
By striking me with its poisonous fangs,
Leaving me to pay for my crime
Once by lying to myself
And twice for good measure.
Now I must suffer for my pleasure.
I curse, slam the wall again
And feel pain radiating from my navel
Down through my bowels
And am not able to get to the telephone
To call my mother.
I hear a splash and all of a sudden,
The snake darts from the hole I made in the wall
And crawls forward to slake its thirst.
I grit my teeth, but stand stock still
As the pain gnaws at my vitals.
I try to show no fear
As the snake takes a long drink of my water
Then slithers away,
But not fast enough to escape,
As screaming with pain and rage
with all the mother instinct I can muster,
and in the Virgin Mary's name,
I raise the shovel and smash the snake,
Crushing its head,
As I double over and fall beside it
On the red, concrete floor.
For awhile, a ripple runs through its body,
Then it is still.
When my pain subsides, I fall asleep
And dream I'm dead
And hundreds of baby snakes are gathered at my wake.
They crawl all over my body
And I try to shake them off,
Until I realize they're part of me.
At Saint Mary's Hospital, the nurses and my doctor
Tell me how courageous I am
And the nuns even come to visit me.
They claim I have performed a miracle
And should be canonized.
Saint Peggy. 'How does that sound?'
I ask Saint Patrick aloud
When left alone to hold my child.
I smile at her and tell her she is blessed.
The nuns have gone off to light some candles
And in the chapel.
They say they're praying for special dispensation
But I don't need that and neither does my girl.
Back home, after a few days, I realize
That I made a mistake in thinking I could take away my sins
When Mother tells me my new daughter is cursed
Because I killed a snake the day she was born.
'What a cruel mother you are,' I tell her
And she says, 'Yes, I'm just like all the others.
I should have smothered you when you were born.
I was so torn up inside, I nearly died for you
And you repay me with not one bastard, but two.
I never thought I'd call a whore my daughter.'
When I protest, she says, 'There's the door.'
After that, I decide to ignore her
And in a state between agitation and rest,
I remember something I had forgotten.
As I lay beside the snake.
I saw a tiny bunch of eggs spill out of her
And realized she was an expectant mother too
And simply wanted a drink to soothe herself
One desert afternoon
When mothers must decide to save
Or execute their children.
Related quotes
Im The Girl
Ive got a memory
A thousand years old
And I know secrets
Ive never been told
And Ive got jewels
I havent found
And theyll return me
To the ground
Im the girl, Im the girl, Im the girl
You know me
Im the girl, Im the girl, Im the girl
You know me
And Im a siren
Ill wreck you on my shores
And Im godiva
Ill call you back for more
And Im medusa
And Im your favourite doll
And Im a georgia okeefe
Hanging on your wall
Im the girl, Im the girl, Im the girl
You know me
Im the girl, Im the girl, Im the girl
You know me
Im joan of arc
Im the girl next door
Im the mother and the daughter
Of the mother and the daughter before
And I remember being born just sound and light
And sound and light and light
And I remember the first time, skin on skin in the arms
In the arms of the night
Well how many times have we looked up into the starry skies
And how many times have we felt the passion rise
Every ruby-lipped girl baby, old lady, squaw junkie, girl after girl after girl
Every muse, whore, good witch, princess, back arching, year after year after year
Im the girl, Im the girl, Im the girl
You know me
Im the girl, Im the girl, Im the girl
You know me
Im joan of arc
Im the girl next door
Im the mother and the daughter
Of the mother and the daughter
The mother and the daughter
Of the mother and the daughter
The mother and the daughter
Of the mother and the daughter
Before.
song performed by by Heather Nova
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Forsaken
Holy Mother of God, Merciful Mary. Hear me! I am very weary. I have come
from a village miles away, all day I have been coming, and I ache for such
far roaming. I cannot walk as light as I used, and my thoughts grow confused.
I am heavier than I was. Mary Mother, you know the cause!
Beautiful Holy Lady, take my shame away from me! Let this fear
be only seeming, let it be that I am dreaming. For months I have hoped
it was so, now I am afraid I know. Lady, why should this be shame,
just because I haven't got his name. He loved me, yes, Lady, he did,
and he couldn't keep it hid. We meant to marry. Why did he die?
That day when they told me he had gone down in the avalanche, and could not
be found until the snow melted in Spring, I did nothing. I could not cry.
Why should he die? Why should he die and his child live? His little child
alive in me, for my comfort. No, Good God, for my misery! I cannot face
the shame, to be a mother, and not married, and the poor child to be reviled
for having no father. Merciful Mother, Holy Virgin, take away this sin I did.
Let the baby not be. Only take the stigma off of me!
I have told no one but you, Holy Mary. My mother would call me 'whore',
and spit upon me; the priest would have me repent, and have
the rest of my life spent in a convent. I am no whore, no bad woman,
he loved me, and we were to be married. I carried him always in my heart,
what did it matter if I gave him the least part of me too? You were a virgin,
Holy Mother, but you had a son, you know there are times when a woman
must give all. There is some call to give and hold back nothing.
I swear I obeyed God then, and this child who lives in me is the sign.
What am I saying? He is dead, my beautiful, strong man! I shall never
feel him caress me again. This is the only baby I shall have.
Oh, Holy Virgin, protect my baby! My little, helpless baby!
He will look like his father, and he will be as fast a runner and as good
a shot. Not that he shall be no scholar neither. He shall go to school
in winter, and learn to read and write, and my father will teach him to carve,
so that he can make the little horses, and cows, and chamois,
out of white wood. Oh, No! No! No! How can I think such things,
I am not good. My father will have nothing to do with my boy,
I shall be an outcast thing. Oh, Mother of our Lord God, be merciful,
take away my shame! Let my body be as it was before he came.
No little baby for me to keep underneath my heart for those long months.
To live for and to get comfort from. I cannot go home and tell my mother.
She is so hard and righteous. She never loved my father, and we were born
for duty, not for love. I cannot face it. Holy Mother, take my baby away!
Take away my little baby! I don't want it, I can't bear it!
And I shall have nothing, nothing! Just be known as a good girl.
Have other men want to marry me, whom I could not touch, after having known
my man. Known the length and breadth of his beautiful white body,
and the depth of his love, on the high Summer Alp, with the moon above,
and the pine-needles all shiny in the light of it. He is gone, my man,
I shall never hear him or feel him again, but I could not touch another.
I would rather lie under the snow with my own man in my arms!
So I shall live on and on. Just a good woman. With nothing to warm my heart
where he lay, and where he left his baby for me to care for. I shall not be
quite human, I think. Merely a stone-dead creature. They will respect me.
What do I care for respect! You didn't care for people's tongues
when you were carrying our Lord Jesus. God had my man give me my baby,
when He knew that He was going to take him away. His lips will comfort me,
his hands will soothe me. All day I will work at my lace-making,
and all night I will keep him warm by my side and pray the blessed Angels
to cover him with their wings. Dear Mother, what is it that sings?
I hear voices singing, and lovely silver trumpets through it all. They seem
just on the other side of the wall. Let me keep my baby, Holy Mother.
He is only a poor lace-maker's baby, with a stain upon him,
but give me strength to bring him up to be a man.
poem by Amy Lowell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Snake, The Fire and The Baby
Snake, the baby’s friend;
Fire the baby’s enemy
How the snake become baby’s friend
How the fire become baby’s enemy.
In one cold morning in the Nile valley
The mother put her baby beside the fire to get warm
And went to work on the farm.
The snake came, bitten the baby’s hand
Flinches, hide under log of firewood
The baby cried shrilly
The mother heard it, came and saw it hand bleeding
“Oouw, what hurt your hand? Mine! Mine!
“Fire! Mama! ” The baby answered
.The mother hipped her baby, went to healer
The snake heard what the baby said in it hideout,
It remorse for it vilest act
Hissed a expletive not to harm a baby forever
That’s why it play with babies without harm in Nile Valley,
Villages when their mothers are absent
The fire heard what the baby said.
And become furious of being scapegoat
For snake execrable luck in the world
And kindled expletive to harm the baby.
That’s why it burn baby hands everyday
When touch it red tongue.
poem by David Aoloch Bion
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Knowledge is Mother Of Life Divine!
Only of evils in own,
seeing the path of Goodness and Godliness,
Knowledge is not mother of fear,
But knowledge is mother of Care,
Against one's own fall or care about fall of others!
Knowledge is not mother of fear,
Knowledge is the spear,
Knowledge is spear that kills the fear,
And takes to fearless sphere!
`FEAR Is Mother Of
KNOWLEDGE.
Aye or Nay, you decide!
How can one born to fear can dare,
how can one see is own nature,
fear, if governs his mind and thought,
How one fear more,
Can open windows and door?
Fear is not the mother of love,
A child's love to its mother or father,
Is just Love And Respect,
Not fear the mother of all these,
Fear only maketh one run away from Father,
Love And affection take near to Him!
Knowledge is mother of Courage,
Love, faith, belief and aspiration of oneness!
Fear is mother of Cowardice, doubts, hate,
Fear is mother of all slips and fall,
Fear is the mother of ill fate!
Only Love, The love of truth, and love with True knowledge is the mother of Life Divine!
Aye or Nay you Decide!
poem by Ramdas Bhandarkar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Her true love
Her true love
She swooped on the snake and
Throw it in the air
Because it was creeping towards her baby
Who was lying under the shadow of a tree?
She was a laborer working on the road.
Suddenly she saw this snake nearby her baby.
She did not hesitate in attacking on the snake.
It may be dangerous for her life also
But she was thinking only for her baby’s life
not about her at that time.
I think that it is mother’s love
Which is not comparable to any one?
Mother’s love is great.
poem by Vijay Gupta
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Mid the Piteous Heaps of Dead
'MID the piteous heaps of dead
Goes one weary golden head
Tossing ever to and fro,
Calling loud and calling low.
Mother, mother, step so light,
Mother, lay your fingers white
On my forehead like a dew !
Mother, mother, where are you?
Still so loud he makes his cry
That the dying cannot die;
All the writhing field's one groan
While he lies and cries alone.
But his mother's far away;
Cannot hear him cry and say:
Mother, I am dying, come!
Mother, I am lost from home!
Mary, Mother of all men,
Come and comfort him in pain.
Take his young head to the breast
Where your Child and God had rest.
Mary, Mary, step so light.
Mary, lay your fingers white
On his forehead! He shall dream
That his mother comforts him.
Mary, Mother, croon him o'er
Lullabies you sang before!
Mary, ease him, crooning low,
In the way that mothers know!
poem by Katharine Tynan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Being A Mother
MOTHER! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !
MOTHER IS A WORD
MOTHER IS A PERSON
MOTHER IS A WOMEN
BUT WAT IS REALLY A MOTHER?
MOTHER! ! ! ! ! !
MOTHER IS WOMEN WHO GIVES BIRTH
NO........
MOTHER IS A WOMEN WHO CARES OF HER BABY
MOTHER IS A WOMEN WHO IS WILLING TO GIVE HER LIFE FOR THEIR BABY'S
ANY WOMEN CAN HAVE A BABY
ANY WOMEN CAN GIVE BIRTH
ANY WOMEN CAN BE CALLED MOM
BUT ONLY A REAL WOMEN
ONLY A REAL MOTHER CAN TAKE OVER HER RESPOSABILITIES
ONLY A WOMEN CAN DO WHATS BEST FOR THEIR CHILD
A MOTHER! ! ! ! ! ! !
A MOTHER LIKE ME
A MOTHER LIKE U
A MOTHER WHO CRIES FOR THEIR CHILD
A MOTHER WHO PRAYS FOR THEIR CHILD
A MOTHER WHO GIVES HER LIFE FOR THEIR CHILD
A MOTHER WHO STARVES TO FEED HER CHILD
A MOTHER WHO IS WILLING TO SLEEP IN THE COLD FOR THEIR CHILD,
A MOTHER WHO MAKES HER CHILDREN FEEL SAFE IN HER ARMS,
BEING THAT MOTHER! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! ! !
BEING THAT MOTHER TAKES ALOT OF WOMEN N A PERSON
BEING A MOTHER........
poem by Leticia Sanchez
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Real Life Tale Of An Ungrateful Daughter
an ungrateful poor daughter blames her father
her mother sad died thirty-two long years ago
her mother did not choose to suffer illness die
was not mother’s fault choice to daughter leave
daughter in bitterness hate life torments father
her father worked two three jobs her education to pay
her poor father said study succeed attend university
she wanted to spend money work in Texas chicken
she married a shiftless dreamer saying play party angles
her father helped raise their two children in his home
she appreciates nothing saved not never to buy her home
she appreciates not years her family lived with her father
she appreciates not her eldest daughter her father raised
this daughter her husband accept no responsibility blame
daughter says if mother were alive life would be different
poem by Terence George Craddock
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Mother Doesn't Want a Dog
Mother doesn't want a dog.
Mother says they smell,
And never sit when you say sit,
Or even when you yell.
And when you come home late at night
And there is ice and snow,
You have to go back out because
The dumb dog has to go.
Mother doesn't want a dog.
Mother says they shed,
And always let the strangers in
And bark at friends instead,
And do disgraceful things on rugs,
And track mud on the floor,
And flop upon your bed at night
And snore their doggy snore.
Mother doesn't want a dog.
She's making a mistake.
Because, more than a dog, I think
She will not want this snake.
poem by Judith Viorst
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Mary Of Magdala
Mary of Magdala came to bed;
There were no soft curtains round her head;
She had no mother to hold of worth
The little baby she brought to birth.
Mary of Magdala groaned and prayed:
'O God, I am very much afraid;
For out of my body, by sin defiled,
Thou biddest me make a little child.
'O God, I have turned my face from Thee
To that which the angels may not see;
How can I make, from my deep disgrace,
A child whose angel shall see Thy face?
'O God, I have sinned, and I know well
That the pains I bear are the pains of hell;
But the thought of the child that sin has given
Is like the thought of the airs of Heaven.'
Mary of Magdala held her breath
In the clutch of pain like the pains of Death,
And through her heart, like the mortal knife,
Went the pang of joy and the pang of life.
'We two are two alone,' said she,
'And we are two who should be three;
Now who will clothe my baby fair
In the little garments that babies wear?'
There came two angels with quiet wings
And hands that were full of baby things;
And the new-born child was bathed and dressed
And laid again on his mother's breast.
'Now who will sign on his brow the mark
To keep him safe from the Powers of the Dark?
Who will my baby's sponsor be?'
'I, the Lord God, who died for thee.'
'Now who will comfort him if he cry;
And who will suckle him by and bye?
For my hands are cold and my breasts are dry,
And I think that my time has come to die.'
'I will dandle thy son as a mother may;
And his lips shall lie where my own Son's lay.
Come, dear little one, come to me;
The Mother of God shall suckle thee.'
Mary of Magdala laughed and sighed;
'I never deserved a child,' she cried.
'Dear God, I am ready to go to hell,
Since with my little one all is well.'
Then the Son of Mary did o'er her lean.
'Poor mother, thy tears have washed thee clean.
Thy last poor pains, they will soon be done,
And My Mother shall give thee back thy son.'
Frozen grass for a bearing bed,
A halo of frost round a woman's head,
And pious folks who looked and said:
'A drab and her brat that are better dead.'
poem by Edith Nesbit
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True Friends? ? ?
the snake slithers around
sneaky not to make a sound
slowly creeps upon his prey
attacks then runs away
beware of him he bites
and does it within his rights
he might be pretty to look at
but truly he's ugly lot
the snake will smother
even kill his own mother
snakes are full of greed
upon your soul he will feed
the snake is a self-adoring creature
humility is not a feature
snakes are everywhere
so beware.......
poem by Ultimate Cyan
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Mother Mother Mother
How you cared for us. Don't keep away from us.I won't surive without you/ Mother Mother Mother Your eyes show me the way. When I fall on my way. You lend me a hand to carry on. Mother Mother Mother You had a very hard life. But you gave your baby your own bread from your own mouth. When she feels hungry. Mother Mother Mother If I pass though this word. I wouldn't find you anywhere. Your sweet smile makes me happy. Mother Mother Mother My love for you will go on forever. I love you my Mother Mother Mother forever and ever. written 6/23/08 Posted 10/27/08 In the memory of my mother Esther Ferber Klayton
poem by Susie Sunshine
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Shadow-Child
Why do the wheels go whirring round,
Mother, mother?
Oh, mother, are they giants bound,
And will they growl forever?
Yes, fiery giants underground,
Daughter, little daughter,
Forever turn the wheels around,
And rumble-grumble ever.
Why do I pick the threads all day,
Mother, mother,
While sunshine children are at play?
And must I work forever?
Yes, shadow-child; the live-long day,
Daughter, little daughter,
Your hands must pick the threads away,
And feel the sunshine never.
Why do the birds sing in the sun,
Mother, mother,
If all day long I run and run,
Run with the wheels forever?
The birds may sing till day is done,
Daughter, little daughter,
But with the- wheels your feet must run—
Run with the wheels forever.
Why do I feel so tired each night,
Mother, mother?
The wheels are always buzzing bright;
Do they grow sleepy never?
Oh, baby thing, so soft and white,
Daughter, little daughter,
The big wheels grind us in their might,
And they will grind forever.
And is the white thread never spun,
Mother, mother?
And is the white cloth never done,
For you and me done never?
Oh yes, our thread will all be spun,
Daughter, little daughter,
When we lie down out in the sun,
And work no more forever.
And when will come that happy day,
Mother, mother?
Oh, shall we laugh and sing and play
Out in the sun forever?
Nay, shadow-child, we'll rest all day,
Daughter, little daughter,
Where green grass grows and roses gay,
There in the sun forever.
poem by Harriet Monroe
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Cupboard
Mother: What's in that cupboard, Mary?
Mary: Which cupboard, mother dear?
Mother: The cupboard of red mahogany
With handles shining clear.
Mary: That cupboard, dearest mother,
With shining crystal handles?
There's nought inside but rags and jags
And yellow tallow candles.
Mother: What's in that cupboard, Mary?
Mary: Which cupboard, mother mine?
Mother: That cupboard stands in your sunny chamber,
The silver corners shine.
Mary: There's nothing there inside, mother,
But wool and thread and flax,
And bits of faded silk and velvet
And candles of white wax.
Mother: What's in that cupboard, Mary?
And this time tell me true.
Mary: White clothes for an unborn baby, mother..
But what's the truth to you?
poem by Robert Graves
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Mothers Are Not Alike
God blessed and made her a woman
to conceive and deliver ‘twin babies’.
Such baby-girls some long to have
and some are cursed not to have.
Schemes are plenty to help grow these girls.
When animals too feed the kids of other,
a beastly mother slit the throat of one baby-girl,
born to her two weeks back with a blade.
Her mother-in-law suffocated the second baby.
What a heart these have to irk the Creator Himself!
Slipping through the discharge chute
in the toilet of the running train,
her sudden-born baby
fell on to the tracks.
Rinku flung herself from the train
to rescue her babe.
She never thought of pulling the chain
to stop the speeding train.
Mother and her babe are safe! A miracle!
What a mother the baby is fortunate to have!
poem by Rajendran Muthiah
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Mother’s day
It was mother’s day
and you wanted your dead mother
to be alive again,
more sincerely than anything.
You even were angry with me
for not thinking about you
on that day
of you now being motherless
when you had a mother
for most of your life
and a father too
and that there was something empty,
something missing from your life,
and her being gone
was terrible on that particular day.
That you couldn’t make her breakfast,
pick nasturtiums
from the garden for her,
or even talk to her,
on that special day
and I said that I didn’t realize that you were
missing your mom so much,
and offered my sincere sympathy
and told you that we have to appreciate
our parents
while we still have them,
that life lies only in the hand of God,
that I had grown up without a father
and that my mother was the only parent
whom I really knew
and ironically the only woman
that didn’t leave me in the lurch
which made you angrier,
so much so that you slammed
the phone down in my ear
when I called to apologize
and I wondered why
the persons that we hold dear
leave so much pain
when they are gone
and what had gotten into you?
poem by Gert Strydom
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The Boy And The Snake
Henry was every morning fed
With a full mess of milk and bread.
One day the boy his breakfast took,
And eat it by a purling brook
Which through his mother's orchard ran.
From that time ever when he can
Escape his mother's eye, he there
Takes his food in th'open air.
Finding the child delight to eat
Abroad, and make the grass his seat,
His mother lets him have his way.
With free leave Henry every day
Thither repairs, until she heard
Him talking of a fine grey bird.
This pretty bird, he said, indeed,
Came every day with him to feed,
And it loved him, and loved his milk,
And it was smooth and soft like silk.
His mother thought she'd go and see
What sort of bird this same might be.
So the next morn she follows Harry,
And carefully she sees him carry
Through the long grass his heaped-up mess.
What was her terror and distress,
When she saw the infant take
His bread and milk close to a snake!
Upon the grass he spreads his feast,
And sits down by his frightful guest,
Who had waited for the treat;
And now they both begin to eat.
Fond mother! shriek not, O beware
The least small noise, O have a care-
The least small noise that may be made,
The wily snake will be afraid-
If he hear the lightest sound,
He will inflict th'envenomed wound.
She speaks not, moves not, scarce does breathe,
As she stands the trees beneath;
No sound she utters; and she soon
Sees the child lift up its spoon,
And tap the snake upon the head,
Fearless of harm; and then he said,
As speaking to familiar mate,
'Keep on your own side, do, Grey Pate:'
The snake then to the other side,
As one rebukëd, seems to glide;
And now again advancing nigh,
Again she hears the infant cry,
Tapping the snake, 'Keep further, do;
Mind, Grey Pate, what I say to you.'
The danger's o'er-she sees the boy
(O what a change from fear to joy!)
Rise and bid the snake 'good-bye;'
Says he, 'Our breakfast's done, and I
Will come again to-morrow day:'
Then, lightly tripping, ran away.
poem by Charles Lamb
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A Mother Does Not
A mother does not raise her child for to fight and die in war
Or to kill another Human Being in a Country from home far
That her son or her daughter should at someone else shoot to kill
A person they have never known or who have never bore them ill.
Picasso's 'Screaming Woman' is for all woman kind
The mother weeps for her dead child with grief 'out of her mind'
Mothers do not raise their children for to be remembered on War Memorial Day
For to fight in war for war mongering non combatants and throw their lives away
A mother raises her son or daughter so her seed of life will live on
That her genes will still be around when she herself has gone
From the World of the living to be numbered amongst the dead
I wish for my children to outlive me that's what the mother said.
A mother does not raise her child for to meet with an early death
Not for her War Memorial Day or the words 'Lest we forget'
She wants her son and daughter for to grow old and gray
And she does not wish to hear of War and War Memorial Day.
poem by Francis Duggan
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Like Father Like Son
He was raised in the english way
His daddy taught him respect, he taught him how to pray
They sent him off to boarding school
Where he learned how to live by someone elses rule
And he went to confession
He went to confession
Holy father wash my sins away
He went to confession
He went to confession
Mother mary take the pain away
He read letters from home at night in his bed
And got this uneasy feeling when his father said
Fear of God and the feel of the rod
Will raise a good boy
The fear of God and the feel of the rod
Will raise a good boy
He bought his daddys car and he learned to drive
And when he left school he got a nine to five
He met the girl and he got his spouse
And they had the child and they got the house
And he went to confession
He went to confession
Holy father wash my sins away
He went to confession
He went to confession
Mother mary take the pain away
He loved his son and he helped him build walls and fronts
He knew hed heard it before
Someone had said it once
Fear of God and the feel of the rod
Will raise a good boy
The fear of God and the feel of the rod
Will raise a good boy
He raised his son in the english way
And he taught him respect, he taught him how to pray
He sent him off to boarding school
Where he learned how to live by someone elses rules
And he went to confession
He went to confession
Holy father wash my sins away
He went to confession
He went to confession
Mother mary take the pain away
It must be something much deeper than fear or pain
Another child learns a pattern he wont break the chain
Fear of God and the feel of the rod
Will raise a good boy
The fear of God and the feel of the rod
Will raise a good boy
The fear of God and the feel of the rod
Will raise the next boy
song performed by by Rick Springfield
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Like No Other...Mother
Mother...
Mother, who gave us her heart...her very soul.
Mother, who's understanding never wavered.
Mother, the one who dried our tears.
Mother, she lead us to the path of His Love.
Mother, who washed our cloths and cleaned the house.
Mother, who instilled confidence in her children.
Mother, who walked us to school.
Mother, who loved us like no other.
Mother, who quelled the anger within us.
Mother, who drove us to all our practices.
Mother, who never forgot our special occasions.
Mother, who protected her family, as a lion to a cub.
Mother, who always supported our father.
Mother, who scrimped and saved for our daily needs.
Mother, who was always the last to eat.
Mother, who was always the first to rise.
Mother, who cared for the animals.
Mother, a love that knew no limits.
Mother, who forever placed her family, before herself.
Mother, who was grateful, for every passing acknowledgement.
Mother, whose eyes shined, when she heard the words,
I love you mom.
Mother, who always saw the good in us.
Mother, who always taught us to never, never, give up.
Mother, who instilled in us, to be better.
Mother, who made us believe, we could accomplish anything.
Mother, mother...mother, you were like no other.
Mother, you will always remain, in our
hearts, in our deeds, in our thoughts,
in our lives and in our prayers.
Surely, beyond the stars, there's a special place for Mothers.